


Beneath

by diabhals



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23927203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabhals/pseuds/diabhals
Summary: they say baia valontiu was a city of opportunity, once. before the fires came.the third fire hasn’t come yet, but they say it will. smaller blazes break out across the city, each stopped, each one lending venom to people’s whispers. maybe it’s this poisoned speculation that turned the city sour, cut-throat, only offering its sweet opportunities to those willing to spill blood for them. those like beatrice vulpes, a child of the ashes, orphaned in a boat fire. her surname means fox, but they don’t call her that; if they have to address her at all, they call her dog. clever, but dangerous too: she leads a gang of thieves and swindlers, running just outside the reach of both the law and the iron circle. it isn’t enough.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue: Burn-Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings for the prologue: fire, body horror, facial disfigurement

“Come now, time for bed.” Micah smiled down at the little boy on his lap, all golden eyes and messy, dark curls. His father’s colouring, though he had his mother’s smile, dimpled and dazzling. Bright enough to light a lamp by; despite the darkness of the house, the mourning wind whistling down the street outside, there still seemed to be a light beaming from those gilded eyes.

“But -- _papa_ , I’m not even sleepy yet!” He reached up to tug Micah’s beard imploringly. “ _Please?_ ” 

“No, kitten. You have to sleep.” Trying to be stern was an exercise in futility, a smile invading his frown. Scooping his son up, Micah headed for the stairs, though he left the fire crackling. Tavian would be home soon.

“Why?” Small hands curled their way into Micah’s hair, tugging at his beads. Even as his son protested, a yawn shook his tiny frame; no doubt his eyes were beginning to close, sleep winning out.

“ _Why_? Well, if you don’t--” the top stair always creaked; for a moment they both tensed, clinging to each other. “If you don’t, Eduard Burn-tongue will come to get you.”

Micah could feel his son stiffen, fingers tangling further into his hair. “ _Who’s Eduard Burn-tongue_?” He asked, voice dropping to a whisper.

Pushing the bedroom door open with his back, Micah ruffled his son’s hair, reassurance. “I’ll tell you once you’re settled down.”

The room was small, cramped like a nest and tucked at the very top of the house; there was barely room for one bed, let alone the truckle-bed he had to pull out with a foot. Nevertheless, more than draughty and cold and occasionally leaking, it was _enough_ . Hidden enough that when he laid his son down on the truckle, brushing a few dark curls from the boy’s forehead with a tired smile, he didn’t have to keep vigil over him all night. Homely enough that he could fall asleep to the sound of Tavian’s breathing and _almost_ believe they were a real family.

“ _Papa?_ ” Tugging at his sleeve, his son’s golden eyes blink up at him. “You said you’d tell me.”

“Patience--” But he sat down anyway, he always found himself caving to his kitten. “Eduard Burn-tongue is a _monster_ . He lives beneath the city -- _right_ beneath your feet -- and he eats children who don’t go to bed when they’re told.”

“You just made that up.”

“I did _not_.”

“Did _too,_ ” his son pouts, the hint of a grin saying he could play this game forever. Then he wouldn’t have to sleep. 

“No, I didn’t. His skin is made of ash and -- d’you know why they call him _Burn-Tongue_? Because his tongue is made of fire and smoke.” Perhaps Micah should’ve stopped while his son still looked disbelieving; now those eyes are filled with fear as he burrows under the blanket.

“Is he gonna get me?”

“No, kitten.”

“How d’you _know_?” His son’s voice comes out as barely a whisper, wide eyes looking up at him. Begging for protection, a familiarly heart-wrenching sight. 

“Because I won’t let him, ok? If he so much as shows his ugly face, I’ll punch him.” Leaning down, Micah ruffles his son’s hair with a scarred hand. _I’ll keep you safe. From Burn-Tongue and all the other monsters._ “Sleep, now. I’ll be right here.”

His son nods, at last, rolling over as his gilded eyes slide shut. Micah doesn’t need to stay, not when their sanctuary is so tucked away, but he found he _wanted_ to. Sometimes he forgot this was all real: the boy’s steady, sleeping breaths, their cat moseying over to settle somewhere among that mess of curls. The chest of drawers somehow squeezed against the rafters where the roof started to dip, child-sized socks and vests poking out like bunting. They’re adrift in this tiny room, in a tiny house, with a storm hovering over them, but -- their ship is safe, the waves only lulling them further.

For a moment, all was silent, Micah studying his sleeping son from over steepled hands. 

“Micah!” A voice echoed from downstairs, _Tavian_ ’s voice. “Mik! Fire!”

“ _Again_?” He sighed; with the summer they were having, hot and heavy like greatship smog, the blazes seemed to come thick and fast.

“It’s the boss’s house!”

_Shit_ . Micah stood in a rush, barely even noticing how his knees protested. _I’m getting too old for this, aren’t I_ , a voice in the back of his mind said, but he didn’t have _time_ for that. One last glance at his son before he left the room, carefully shutting the door behind him.

Hurtling down the stairs, Micah’s thoughts flickered from _how bad_ to _how big_ to _how will we stop it_ , a blaze of worry ripping through his chest. _What if he’s trapped_ came only as an echo.

The smell of smoke greeted him as he stumbled off the last step, acrid in his throat. Barely noticing Tavian, he looked out the window to see _orange_ , bathing the street in vengeful, toothy light.

“ _See_ ?” Tavian’s voice was ragged, _fearful_. “It’s bad.”

Micah rushed past him and into the smoke-choked street.

He stopped dead.

The street was bathed in an eerie, sputtering light, like that of a thousand chandeliers, smoke hanging gown-thick over the cobbles. _Unreal_ , he wants to say, but the words die in his mouth as he looks up, up at the house, already a mere husk of what it used to be. Fire dances merrily out of the windows, a demented waltz as it licks over stone with crackling heat. Red, orange, _white-yellow_ , its crackling reverberating in his ears like music. Music, or was it screams? He didn’t know, the heat made his head swim, made him roll up his shirtsleeves, sweat already trickling down his arms.

Just looking at it seared his eyes; the smoke scalded his lungs, forcing him to cough into his elbow.

_Unreal_ . _Please let this be unreal_.

Glancing up, Micah noticed something through the smoke. A figure.

Somehow that was enough to arouse him from his stupor, bounding across the cobbles even as the smoke stung his eyes. Was it --

The figure turned, and his stomach dropped again.

It _was_ Andreus, at least, it had Andreus’ hair. It was wearing Andreus’ clothes, but its _face_ \-- Micah felt bile rising in his throat just looking at it. What was left of it, anyway, puckered over with suppurating burns, bile-yellow blisters on raw flesh. Most of the right cheek was missing, teeth poking through, a startling white between strands of skin. 

The eyes were the worst, though. Even though they were pristine, they bored into Micah with a _burning_ that felt like fire, licking at his insides, maddened with blazing hunger. Despite how bady the rest of Andreus’ frame shook, the eyes held steady, flame-red in his ruined face.

_Run_ , Micah’s mind told him, _grab your boy and run_ . Yet he was tied to the spot, captured by those _awful_ eyes.

As he watched, he thought he saw Andreus opening what now served as his mouth. The roaring fire was deafening, smoke clogging Micah’s lungs, yet he heard the words clear as day.

“ _Bring him to me_.”


	2. I : Bea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A career criminal and a captain walk into a bar...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for chapter 1: violence, alcohol

Bea’s pocket watch never quite strikes the hour correctly. Perhaps its cogs catch on dents, perhaps age has simply worn them into smooth facsimiles -- she hasn’t opened it up since it was first pressed into her hand, though she’s wondered enough. Looking back, she wonders if it always chimed a little early, or a little late; it came from unskilled, bloodstained hands, a gift she’s never had the money to replace. Even now, she finds its dulled bronze face a comfort, taking it out only to click it open over and over,  _ click click click _ until the noise forms some kind of pattern. A habit, of sorts, that’s replaced winding it incessantly. Even if at this hour there’s no need for a dented, rubbed-smooth pocketwatch -- the Hanged Man’s clock ticks by just fine -- she could still lose days to it. If she didn’t have other matters on her mind.

Shoving the watch into her waistcoat pocket, Bea surveys the room. It’s full of her people, The Mongrels, their late-evening shadows reaching up to the rafters; she promised them a night of revelry after yesterday’s job, and they’re lapping up their beer, the pub resounding with barking laughter. Sometimes the noise feels like knives being driven into her skull, but tonight it’s only a low buzz at the edges of her awareness. After all, she can’t begrudge them a few creature comforts, a fire that casts shadow-puppet flickers on the lime-washed walls, a carousel of cheap food and cheaper drink.

Amidst the helter-skelter of rowdy bodies, there’s one thing she notices. Not Annas standing on a table, his fellow enforcers clapping out a dancing beat, but absence. The absence of the woman she came here to meet, the empty chair across from her practically  _ jeering _ .  _ You made a mistake, you made a mistake-- _

Releasing a sigh of frustration, Bea checks her watch again. Nine fifteen, give or take a few clumsy minutes. If this is all a waste, her plan will come to nothing but a missed opportunity.

The door opens; she glances up,  _ hoping _ , searching for that flash of white. But it’s only Kiriya.

On any other night, Bea would be glad to see her second. Kiriya, she’s more than that: she’s the hands that dragged Bea from the docks, that snatched her from the jaws of a fiery death. That moment alone was enough to prove her loyalty, but she keeps on proving it, scar by scar, even an eye sacrificed at the altar of duty. She’s the shield that keeps Bea safe in street fights, the iron hull of their operation. She’s -- not quite  _ home _ , but the closest thing Bea has to it. The road that leads back, perhaps. Tonight, though, she could be nothing but a liability, and she’s almost  _ certainly _ the bearer of bad news. 

Shoving past a group playing darts, Kiriya settles into a seat next to Bea. Twenty years in Esca and she still sits in the Tahranian style, legs crossed awkwardly on the chair.

“She’s not coming,” Bea states, clicking the watch shut. Clicking it open again, snapping the lid.  _ Click click  _ **_snap_ ** _. _

“I didn’t see her.” Tucking a loose strand of hair back into her headscarf, Kiriya smooths down the cherry-dark cotton. “That doesn’t mean she isn’t coming.”

“It might as well!” Despite her missing eye, Kiriya’s the best tracker they have, able to slide through waves of people like a fish through water. And if she couldn’t find her -- suddenly Bea wants to crush her watch, wants to see its clockwork intestines crunch between her fingers. She’d even worn her best suit for the occasion, black felt and a shirt that feels like it’s scraping her skin raw.

Kiriya sighs, shifting to face Bea. The movement casts one side of her face into shadow, darkness clawing its way up the puckered scar over her eye and dissolving into her scarf; it slithers into the worry-lines on her forehead, dipping into clay-brown skin, casting her as if in some forgotten painter’s masterpiece. 

“Look --” She picks at her scar, gazing somewhere above Bea’s shoulder. “Everyone else is enjoying themselves. That was what we came here to do, wasn’t it? Does it really matter whether she comes or not?”

“Does it? Of course it does.” Bea flicks the watch open again, shutting it as if to shut up the anger that gnaws at her. It  _ always _ has to be a battle, always has to be dissent with Kiriya. As if she doesn’t remember all the ground they’ve gained. “It’s the only way we’re going to turn a profit today.”

“Alright, but-- does it  _ have  _ to be her?”

Bea shrugs, “She’s easy.”

“She’s a circle-daughter. Humiliating her would be kicking the proverbial hornet’s nest.” Kiriya must’ve noticed Bea’s confused look, because she amends: “Bringing them all down on us.”

“They deserve it.  _ She _ deserves it, arrogant bastard.” The Iron Circle, an uneasy alliance of the worst scum Baia Valontiu has to offer -- though Bea thinks she can do better. The only thing uniting them, their chokehold on the city.

That earns a reluctant snort of laughter, ground conceded but not won. “I’m not denying that she needs to be taken down a peg, but --  _ here _ ? This is Iron Circle-owned, you know that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bea butts back, quick to spit on the idea that the Iron Circle has any more power over her than she lets them get away with.

“Bea! You could get us all  _ shot _ !” 

“I’m willing to risk it.” For once, she meets Kiriya’s eyes. There might be righteous anger in there, but there’s a  _ hunger _ to, a hunger she knows all too well. It’s irresistible. “You are, too.”

“ _ I _ am, but what about the others?” She gestures to the other Mongrels, laughing their way through a new round of beers. “What about Annas and Ioana? They follow you because you give them bread and money, not a bullet to bite on.”

Now it’s Bea’s turn to sigh, fingers tapping the watch case. Obviously, Kiriya can’t  _ see _ \-- all the Mongrels are to her are  _ friends _ , not gaping mouths to feed and endless pockets to fill. Not knives needling at her back. “They won’t  _ keep _ following me unless I give them more, and we can’t  _ get _ more unless we take some of the Circle’s share. This is our best chance.”

“ _ Here _ ? With  _ her _ ? Can’t we find a different mark?”

“ _ No! _ ” Bea’s hand slams down on the watch. Skin hot with anger, making the suit even more uncomfortable, eyes stabbing into Kiriya’s side. No matter what she said, the plan would not be jeopardised. “We’re doing it here,  _ now _ . If you don’t want to, walk away. I won’t stop you -- but you can’t stop  _ me _ .”

Kiriya is about to reply when the door opens.

The room falls silent.

Leaning in the doorway is Galatea D’Artsrijk. She slouches with a soldier’s ease, her military jacket as dark as the silk-blue night behind her, and seems to hold every gaze in the Hanged Man in her hand. Circle-daughter, captain: each title she wears as easily as the sabre at her side. A bullet made flesh, she is, meeting every eye as if daring them to question her. 

She steps into the pub, footsteps resounding like gunfire. Rifle-sash a dash of red gore through her jacket, the firelight playing off gilded buttons and embroidery until they too seem to be burning. Burning with a fire only matched by that which the light creates on her deep, umber-dark skin. Her hair is pulled back in thick twists, each wrapped tight with fine, white thread. A tradition of the D’Artsrijks; Bea thinks she might’ve heard of piebaldism being hereditary in their family. The hair beneath Galatea’s wrappings, though, is as white as the thread, depigmented skin nudging at her hairline. Somehow, it looks like a halo.

Slowly, she walks through the room, almost filling it; her height seems exaggerated by the shadows, raising her into a demigoddess. One hand rests absently on the handle of her sabre. Bea wants to take that blade and twist it into her gut, biting down on the impulse as she gets closer. Even now, silence reigns -- or rather, silence cowers at Galatea’s heels as she saunters past the tables, nodding at each row of dumbstruck Mongrels. Only now do they realise, they’re surrounded by  _ her _ men as well, soldiers and Iron Circle enforcers.

Finally, she slides into the seat opposite Bea. One cant of her head and the conversation begins to flow again, everyone eager to both avoid eye contact and steal admiring glances. Tapping Kiriya’s shoulder, Bea addresses herself to the table, fixing her gaze somewhere in Galatea’s mottled hairline.

Kiriya stands, taking her position behind Bea with wordless but obvious annoyance. Finally, Bea clicks the watch shut, replacing it in her waistcoat pocket; instead, her fingers tap an eager rhythm on her thigh.

“Well,” says Galatea, leaning back in her chair. “It’s time to pay up.”

“I’m not paying.”

“ _ Sorry _ ?” Suddenly, a switchblade change from jovial to  _ dangerous _ . Not exactly outright hostility, not  _ yet _ , but steel being bared in the scabbard. Bea just needs to push her to  _ draw _ . 

“I’m not paying.” There’s something satisfying in the repetition, the implication that Galatea didn’t understand the first time round.

“You know that’s not how this works. Protection dues aren’t something you just  _ don’t pay _ .” 

“I’m not paying  _ until  _ I know you’re not going to spend my hard-won money at the palace and come back asking for more.”

That seems to cut deep enough; Galatea’s expression snaps from condescending to incensed. So  _ easy _ \-- Bea is tempted to tap Kiriya’s leg,  _ I told you so _ , but the battle isn’t won just yet.

“Do you  _ really _ think that low of a circle-daughter?” Leaning forward, Galatea lays an impeccably gloved hand on the table. A silent threat. “Whoring isn’t my vice.”  _ Lies _ . “So I can assure you, your  _ hard-robbed _ money is in safe hands.”

There it is, the thing Bea wants to rip from Galatea’s chest and  _ burn _ : the Iron Circle arrogance, assuming their stealing is sanctioned because they’re on the top of the pile. As if it isn’t a pile of  _ shit _ , as if they aren’t dung beetles like everyone else.  _ Insignificant _ outside the city, yet fighting mandible and wing-case for some kind of power within it. For  _ security _ , because they know how miserable they’ve made the lives of those at the bottom. And how  _ easy _ it is for someone else, a bird or a lizard, to swallow beetles whole.

“You’re a soldier.” Bea leans back, switching the tapping from fingers to foot. After a while, one becomes tedious; the heel of her boot makes a much more satisfying  _ thud _ on wooden boards. “Forgive me for generalising, but the soldiers  _ I _ know spend their leave-time and their money on --  _ pleasures of the flesh _ . So I’m not paying.”

Galatea’s eyes flash,  _ dangerous _ ; she’s edging closer to laying battle lines, Bea can see it. Even more now their conversation has caught the Mongrels’ attention, stifled laughter rippling through the public house like wind picking its way through prairie grass. One glare from the wildfire-made-human is enough to silence them -- but there’s a muscle clenching in her jaw, and Bea thinks she saw a soldier titter.

“For the  _ second _ time, I’m a  _ circle-daughter _ .” Galatea’s voice is taut, strung-out, a rope about to snap. “Even if I  _ wanted _ to do that, I have a sworn duty to my family. So pay up.”

Biting down on the laughter that threatens to burst from her, Bea allows her tapping foot to gather pace; Galatea’s  _ so _ close, a shark swimming into her net just to catch a flickering mackerel. 

“If you were a better liar, I would. But you’re not exactly  _ secret _ . About your visits, or how good Tammy Ciobanu tastes.” It’s just a guess, but statistically, half the city’s been inside him. If it has to be anyone for a decorated captain, it’ll be the most beautiful. The most expensive.

Suddenly, Galatea jumps to her feet, hand on her sabre. Silence falls once more.

Bea rises with her, dwarfed by the taller woman, but refusing to look up to her.  _ This is it _ . Every breath in the bar held, waiting for Galatea’s reaction. 

“If you bring Tammy into it again ―”  _ Oh, I will _ . With great effort, Galatea manages to rein her voice back to  _ civil _ . “This isn’t about him, anyway. This is about  _ you _ , and your inability to give your superiors their due.”

“So you  _ don’t  _ want to see him tonight.” This time, Bea meets Galatea’s eye for the briefest of moments. Just to make sure she understands,  _ I’ve planned this. And I’m enjoying it _ . “Perhaps I will pay. If you can tolerate the thought of someone else licking him clean.”

The punch blindsides her, impacting with her cheekbone in a surge of pain. Ears ringing, Bea almost stumbles, forcing herself to stand firm as a hand flies instinctually to her face. Yes.  _ Yes _ ; even biting down on her cheek to keep from gasping, even seeing Galatea wind up for another, she doesn’t care. The satisfaction is still the same. She’s  _ done _ it.

Through the haze, Kiriya lunges forward. Swift and fluid as an arrow; despite their argument, she’s still willing to punch a captain and damn the consequences. If it didn’t hurt so much, if she doesn’t still have work to do, Bea might’ve stopped to admire the sight of  _ Galatea _ stumbling, missing the draw for once.

From there, it’s chaos. Webbing out across the Hanged Man, soldiers and mongrels alike pooling into a sticky mass of conflict. Jumping down from his table, Annas is subsumed by a wave of soldiers, punches and curses crashing over each other. Barrage after barrage; somewhere, a glass breaks, shards shattering like fine sea mist. Just the kind of background stimulation Bea enjoys.

She slips out from between Kiriya and Galatea, a quick tap to her second’s thigh.  _ Good luck. Give her stitches _ . One glance over her shoulder, and they’re rocking, warships on a sea of fury.

Now the rest of the bar; shoving past an Iron Circle enforcer, Bea begins to fight her way through the shallows, into the maelstrom of the brawl. No room for courtesy; an elbow to whoever gets too close, no room either for pulling a knife.

Someone’s brass-knuckled fist comes sailing out a reef-knot of people; she grabs and twists, almost grinning at their yelp. Shoved up against a table, the itchy-scratchy fabric of her shirt chafing against her skin, but the endgame is in sight: the bar. The door behind it.

_ One final push _ . Bea surges for a gap in the crowd, tacking between people, kicking where her fists can’t reach. A hand grabs her by the jacket, yanking her back into a whirlpool of beer and salty breath; she  _ must _ go forward, straining against it, scrabbling for some purchase on some soldier’s uniform -- until the hand falls away. Ioana, cracking the woman over the head with a beer bottle.

_ Finally _ she surfaces, gasping in a good lungful of sweatless air, staggering like a castaway to the bar. It’s empty; ducking behind it, Bea grabs the suitcase she stowed there earlier. 

Only now does she draw her knife, slipping through the back room door. Quiet greets her, and rows of barrels, crates of beer. Whiskeys lining shelves like antiques; she snatches one down, shoving into the suitcase as a souvenir. A bargaining chip, if she ever finds herself negotiating with an alcoholic.

The sound of whimpering catches Bea’s attention. Eyes sliding to the corner of the dusty little room, there’s the barman, trying to meld himself with the wood.  _ Pitiful _ , staring at her with wide, frightened eyes.

“Ah. Just the person I was hoping to meet.” Despite the blossoming black eye, Bea stands tall, smoothing her voice to an Iron Circle purr. “Your safe.”

“I don’t-- I can’t, please--” He stumbles over the words, clinging to a shelf as if it’d be enough to save him. “ _ Please _ .”

Bea begins to walk towards him, making every footstep fall deliberately. Nonchalantly, almost, as she toys with her knife, letting the blade catch the light.

“I’ll say it again.” Now she’s almost breathing on him, crouching to his level as he cowers away. “ _ The safe _ .”

He’s almost cross-eyed trying to watch the blade. It would be so  _ easy _ to let it slip -- not enough to kill, of course. Enough to terrify.

“It’s -- here.” Scrabbling away at a crate, he shoves it aside, revealing an indifferent iron door. A lock; the barman draws the key from around his neck, trembling so much it almost slips from his fingers. Bea’s knife nudges at the nape of his neck,  _ come on, come on _ , until--

_ Click _ .

At last.

Shoving him aside, Bea begins to scoop the contents into the expectant suitcase. Plump, shining  _ cuna _ , their rattling sending a shiver of relief and self-satisfaction down her spine. 

On her way out, she turns to the terrified barman. Bringing the knife to her lips, she spares him a wink, the meaning clear:  _ don’t talk, if you value your tongue _ .

All at once, she’s hit by the barfight once more: roiling waves of people, heads crashing into tables like breakers on rocks. In the eye of the storm is Galatea D’Artsrijk, a few jacket buttons ripped off, beset by both Kiriya and Annas. They circle her, seagulls renewing their assault, but still the gilded shipwreck stands, chest heaving, destruction all around her.

Picking through the crowd, toeing at still-moaning detritus, Bea makes her way over to the little knot of combatants. Now her black eye has truly started to swell, slitting her vision -- but not dulling the rush of adrenaline at having executed the plan to the letter. Getting the Mongrels to the right place, planting the suitcase, goading Galatea to the punch knowing the chain reaction it would cause: at the end of it all, she has a suitcase full of Iron Circle  _ cuna _ to show for it.

Once she’s standing in front of Galatea, she opens the suitcase, careful not to let any spill. Perhaps it’s an eye contact moment again -- but perhaps Bea won’t waste time performing from someone else’s script. Ignoring Galatea’s fury, she instead turns her attention to the  _ cuna _ , counting as Kiriya lands a well-timed kick.

Galatea wobbles, and Bea looks up. Fifty  _ cuna _ : a month’s worth of protection dues.

“I’ve decided.” She steps forward, catching Galatea’s astonished eye. “I’ll pay.”

With that, she tosses the coins at the circle-daughter’s feet. _ Take it, and you’ll only make a 350 cuna loss tonight _ . Ignoring Galatea’s sputtering protests, Bea tips her cap.

It feels  _ fucking wonderful _ to walk out of the Hanged Man, into the silk-blue night.


	3. II : Bea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A harbourside meeting

Bea leaves the rest of the Mongrels to find their own way home, trusting that drink and glory will eventually give way to the soft lullaby of the warm bed so many of them lack. Until they came to her, that is; grand ideals are one way to capture a man’s loyalty, but she finds bread and coin better ensnare the base instincts of survival. Fear, too: it’s a stern quartermaster, but it keeps even the most pathetic dog whimpering at her heels.

Turning away from the oily alleyways of the city, she takes the harbourside path, sauntering from pool to pool of lamplight past the shipyards. To her right, the moonlit sea, a discontented mirror for the moon, reflecting its glow in hues of sullen blue. To her left, a graveyard of ships in various states of decay, their hulls laid bare as ribcages cresting for the star-splattered sky, heaving with the creaking of bone-bare steel. They’ll be resurrected tomorrow morning, life breathed into them by a torrent of workers, disgorged from the sleeping city beyond:  _ her city _ , pulsing with distant light. Overhead, a few seagulls wheel; they’re said to be ill omens, though it takes more than a sailor’s tale to make Bea change her path. They’re only scavengers, picking at the ships’ metal skeletons.

If only she had such a ship -- Bea’s mind often charts that possibility. The name she would give it (Nadezdha Vulpes if she was feeling sentimental, the Hanged Man if she wasn’t), the far-off places it would sail to. Most importantly, the money it would bring her. 2,000  _ cuna _ per voyage, at least; as much as any Iron Circle vessel brought in. Enough to buy a townhouse, shares, a watch that chimed the hour correctly. Enough to buy her way into the Iron Circle itself, perhaps. 

A figure looming out of the darkness in front of her catches her attention, snapping her mind back to reality. Instantly, her fingers slide to her knife; there’s confidence in walking alone at night, not stupidity. It pays to be armed.

“Good evening,” Bea calls out as the figure approaches. Her foot taps impatiently, eyes straining to make them out as the weak beam of lamplight overhead begins to consume them. A man, apparently, his top hat silhouetted against the street lamp like a shadow, it and the cane at his side meaning he had to be a merchant. But one out so late at night? That doesn’t tally with what Bea knows of the merchants, insular in their townhouse fortresses, and it’s enough to put her on edge. Enough to pique her curiosity.

“Evening,” replies the man, tipping his hat to her. They’re almost level by now, allowing her to see him better: his skin is a smooth, dark brown, made almost black by the night’s caresses. Black, as well, is his coat, and sleek as an otter; black are his eyes, glinting like jet. This entire picture, the slippery smile on his lips, finally clicks in her mind.

Bastiaan van der Maaren, circle-son.

That realisation alone sends Bea’s mind wheeling in an entirely new direction:  _ how _ did he find her,  _ why _ is it  _ him _ ,  _ what _ does he want? Was the pub all part of an elaborate set-up? If so, she reassures herself that she has honesty on her side -- the money had been paid, regardless of how it had been acquired. And, she thinks with some self-satisfaction, Galatea had been the one to throw the first punch; that was protection enough.

She eyes him coolly, daring him to pass on by.

He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls a sea-glass case from a coat pocket, lighting a cigarette before tipping the case to Bea.

“Want a light?”

She would take one if she didn’t know the rules of his little game:  _ if _ she did indulge herself, she’d owe him. Foot-in-the-door, making way for a bigger debt.

“No, thank you. I’ve got my own.” Reaching into her jacket, she produces a case of her own. Driftwood made, worn down by years of steady use, but it does the trick; Bea lights a cigarette, pretending not to notice how Bastiaan’s panther eyes watch her.

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

That elicited a laugh, rough and raw; no-one, least of all a man with silk sheets, roamed Baia Valontiu at night looking for simple  _ conversation _ . “Piss off. What do you  _ really _ want.”

“I’m serious.” He exhaled, letting the fine smoke ascend to the blind yellow gaze of a street lamp. “I have an offer for you.  _ We _ have an offer for you.”

Now Bea’s interest really is captured. There’s no questioning who Bastiaan means by  _ we _ . An offer from the Iron Circle comes only once in a Lady’s Year for a pit dog like her; they usually prefer their menagerie of hand-fed cats. Besides, when they do come, it’s straight from the Circle, not a bastard circle-son. And they pay better than any other work.

“I’m listening.”  _ Begrudingly _ .

“I thought you might be. We have a job for you. A 40,000  _ cuna _ job, to be precise.”

Bea can’t suppress a gasp, her eyes aglow in the sickly lamplight.  _ That much _ \-- that much could buy a greatship, a spot on the harbour front like the one they’re standing in front of.  _ That much _ could buy five townhouses, fine furniture to fit them out with, silk sheets for every member of the Mongrels, if she wanted. Above all, it could buy her control. It could make her  _ exist _ . But -- it couldn’t come without its own price.

“What kind of job?” Now she takes a drag from her cigarette, feeling the numbness spread through her lungs. Against her thigh, her fingers tap a rhythm: anticipation or wariness.

Bastiaan’s smile deepens. “I was under the impression that you weren’t one for asking questions.” Bea shrugs, and Bastiaan continues: “ _ That _ would be telling. And telling would be quite foolish out here.” He illustrates his point with a wave of his cigarette, ash sweeping out across the deadened shipyard. “ _ You never know who might be listening _ .”

He’s a  _ prick _ ; they all are. His non-answer makes Bea want to  _ growl _ , but she restrains herself. Maybe there is something worthwhile at the end of his silver tongue, even if she wishes she could rip it out; contenting herself with a glare, she taps out her annoyance on the butt of her cigarette.

“Tell me, or I’m not doing it. Simple as.”

“All in good time.  _ If _ you want the job, meet me again tomorrow morning at my mother’s offices. 8am sharp, all will be explained. Bring no-one.” 

“For all I know, you’re luring me there to slit my throat and dump my body for the gulls.” Bea’s always struggled with faces, but she still searches his, looking for anything more than a toothy, big-cat grin.

“That’s a good point.” Turning to the sea, Bastiaan gazes out as if asking the restless waves for an answer to such an impregnable question. “I suppose you’ll just have to trust that we won’t.”

“As if I trust  _ you _ .” As if trust means a damn; it’s a dirty game, Bea’s played it long enough to know that.

“You have my word that we won’t. That’s no way to treat an employee, after all.”

That smugness makes something flare inside her. 

“I’m not your fucking  _ employee _ ,” she bites out, barely keeping her tone civil. That suggests the Circle has some kind of control over her, that she comes when they whistle. The thought tastes like acid.

“ _ Not yet _ .” The smile still lingers on his face. “My word, take it or leave it.”

A huff of a laugh escapes Bea’s lips. “Leave it. It’s not worth enough to sell, anyway. Barely worth more than my cigarette case; I’ll need more proof than that.”

He gives a smoke-filled sigh, toying with the top of his cane. For the first time, wonders if what she’s seeing could be frustration -- perhaps  _ desperation _ , even. That gives her something to work with.

“Very well. Here--” Bastiaan reaches into his coat again, producing the sea-glass cigarette case once more. This time, holding it out to Bea. “It’s worth more than my word, at least.”

For a moment, she stares at it in surprise. Reaching out tentatively, expecting him to snatch it away at the last second -- but Bastiaan lets it slide from his fingers.

_ Desperation _ , then, because she’s seen the case’s mother-of-pearl lining, knows how much it’d fetch at auction.

“8am, don’t be late.” Tipping his hat once more, Bastiaan turns to leave. “Bring that back to me; I assure you, you won’t be harmed.”

With that, he strides away again, all but the smouldering tip of his cigarette subsumed by shadow once more. Bea is left holding the case, gazing down at her own murky reflection in the glass: a woman blinking up from a different world. Now, she understands two crucial things. One, the job is dangerous. Two --

They need her.


End file.
